


More Lovely and More Temperate

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, Hot Weather, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 20:50:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4451873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The month of June, 1898, was mild enough, but the beginning of July brought hot weather and cloudless skies, the rain of autumn and winter long forgotten. The air hung heavy and oppressive in the city of London, and deterred both decent citizens and the criminal classes from too much physical activity. Sherlock Holmes sat sprawled in his armchair, touching as little of the upholstery as he could, legs outstretched and arms akimbo, fanning himself half-heartedly with a folded-up newspaper that was empty of newsworthy material.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Lovely and More Temperate

**Author's Note:**

> oh just some more porn i've been writing quietly while i work on my thesis. holmes is hot so watson sucks his dick, the end.

The month of June, 1898, was mild enough, but the beginning of July brought hot weather and cloudless skies, the rain of autumn and winter long forgotten. The air hung heavy and oppressive in the city of London, and deterred both decent citizens and the criminal classes from too much physical activity. Sherlock Holmes sat sprawled in his armchair, touching as little of the upholstery as he could, legs outstretched and arms akimbo, fanning himself half-heartedly with a folded-up newspaper that was empty of newsworthy material.

He had also for the most part given up on clothing, and was in nothing but his silk dressing gown and a pair of drawers. Mrs Hudson had come in to serve breakfast, averted her eyes, and muttered, "Oh, Mr _Holmes_." 

I, on the other hand, could barely look away.

All morning I stole glances at him, trying to focus on my own writing and getting very little done. He would shift and sigh and my eyes would be drawn back to the lengths of his calves, the flex of his bare toes against the carpet, or the expanse of his bare chest. His height and his leanness hid an impressive physique while dressed, but unclothed his flat stomach, strong pectorals, and the cut of his hips was on blatant display. The soft bulge of his manhood beneath the placket of his drawers, his finely boned wrists, his long, sensitive fingers; they tormented me. 

I caved a little past ten, ashamed of my own weakness. I got up and locked the sitting room door.

Holmes didn't move except to raise an eyebrow in my general direction. His newspaper still waved slowly in the air, and sweat gleamed in the hollow of his throat.

"I don't know how you're managing," he said as I approached, indicating with a flick of his fingers my buttoned shirt, my linen trousers, my waistcoat.

"Badly," I said, and sank to the floor at his feet. "Do you know what you look like?"

He smiled languidly, smugly. That was answer enough. I met no resistance when I eased his knees apart with my hands. His toes curled against my calves. He let the hand with the newspaper drop and spread his arms wide for me. I leaned in, hands passing up over his hips to his flanks, and bent to kiss his stomach just above his navel. Then I licked him there and he laughed softly.

"I appreciate the sentiment, dear boy," said he, "but it's much too hot."

"Spend a few months in khaki in the Afghan desert and then tell me it's too hot," I said. I sank back on my heels and nuzzled boldly at the swell of his soft prick through his drawers.

"Mm," said Holmes, and his unoccupied hand came to rest on the back of my head. He did not push me away. Instead, his fingers curled gently in my hair and his thumb rubbed fondly against my scalp. I breathed out, my mouth open, and felt the stirring of his interest.

My hands wandered, skating up his damp back and urging him a little lower in the chair, then passing around his ribs to tease at his nipples and trace the line of a scar that decorated his left side. He squirmed, ticklish, and I dug my fingers in to make him yelp.

He gave my hair a gentle yank in reproach and muttered, “Really, now.” The newspaper recommenced its waving. I flattened my palms against his back and returned my attention to the prize beneath my chin. The smell of him was thick and heady, and his prick fattened up as I mouthed at it. I rubbed my nose along his flesh, feeling it swell and stiffen. Above me he sighed again, the softest vocalisation on an exhalation. I kissed him there and he twitched. His thighs parted further, giving me more room to work. I pushed my hands up again, tucking my thumbs into his underarms, rubbing his soft, damp hair and flirting with the arm holes of his dressing gown.

“John,” he murmured, appreciative. I hummed against him and his cock twitched in its confines. Now I could smell the sharp salt of his arousal, but I restrained myself. I didn’t want to unwrap him just yet. It had been the combination of drawers and dressing gown that had enticed me in the first place.

I heard the newspaper fall to the floor, and then both of Holmes’s hands were in my hair, tugging, massaging, matching the pace of my greedy nuzzling. I stuck out my tongue and licked him through the fabric. He was fully hard now, engorged and hot under my mouth, and I went so far as to dig my teeth in around him.

He sucked in a breath but didn’t chide or warn me off. I licked him again, wetting the cloth, and felt the first bead of excitement escape him. I touched my tongue to his fat prick head and tasted his desire.

When I looked up at him, he was looking back, his face flushed in the heat, his lips parted and his eyes dark. He was smiling. He bit his lower lip, almost coy, and gave my hair another gentle pull. I let go of his ribs and moved to open his drawers.

The tie came undone easily, the fly parted, and I guided his prick out into the air. It stood proudly, curved slightly toward his belly, its sensitive head gleaming, though still primly covered by its hood. As I took it in hand, Holmes rubbed his fingers behind my ears and down the back of my neck. His blush had extended down his throat and he was ruddy now from his sharp cheekbones to his tightened nipples. 

The taste of him was the ocean and the summer sun and the dissipated cloud of his tobacco, familiar and wonderful. I licked him eagerly, fitting my mouth around his head and slicking him to sink deeper. He groaned, his fingers and toes curling, and he dragged his nails back up through my hair, the sensation tingling across my scalp and down my spine. I pulled back to tongue at his slit and breathed deeply.

Holmes curled his fingers around my ears and caressed my jaw. Sweat gathered at the small of my back. His prick moved in and out of my mouth, slowly, the gentle roll of his hips meeting the bob of my head. I sucked him until his breathing changed, growing rapid and shallow, and then I stopped, all at once, and enjoyed his whine of protest.

I kissed my way up the middle of his chest and he curled down to meet me, licking the taste of himself out of my mouth. His lips were plump and slick; he’d been biting them. My moustache scratched the corner of his mouth, and he nuzzled into the sensation with a groan. Between us, I took him in hand.

“What about you?” he gasped, turning my head so that he could bite the corner of my jaw.

“I’m all right,” I said, giving his prick a squeeze, and I was. Achingly hard, yes, and throbbing in my drawers, but relishing it. My desire for him had my heart pounding and my mouth watering, and I planted one more kiss upon his reddened lips, his blushing cheek, as I pulled away.

Now his cock was leaking freely, and I anointed my lips with his excitement as I took him in my mouth once more. Holmes’s moan rang in my ears and sparked like lightning down my spine. His prick was heavy against my tongue, thick and delicate between my teeth, and I stopped my throat taking him as deep as I could. He bent forward over me, knees rising, and sagged back when I let him go.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered.

“Still too hot?” I croaked, stroking a hand up and down his firm thigh.

“Yes,” said he.

I sucked him in again. His head slid against my soft palate and nudged the back of my throat. My fingers were slick with my own saliva, slipping against his skin as I twisted and tugged at the base of his prick, pulling him off into my mouth. My collar was still buttoned, and chafed at my throat. I fumbled to unfasten it; Holmes at once yanked it out of my hand and threw it aside. He shoved his hands underneath the neck of my shirt, groaning, and scratched his short nails up my back.

I could draw this out, if I wished, or I could end it swiftly. I knew Holmes’s body, his triggers, his sensitive places, and I could use them all to my advantage. I slipped one hand between his thighs and cradled his bollocks through his drawers, rolling them carefully between my fingers, cherishing their weight, rubbing the tender skin with my knuckles. Holmes squirmed, spreading his legs wide, pushing up into my mouth. He was whining through his teeth, his fingers sliding on my back.

“John, please,” he gasped, trying to tug his drawers down, hoping to give me more access to his bare skin. I ignored him. My attention was caught by the stiffening of his prick in my mouth, the shiver of his tensing abdomen, and the way his bollocks were tightening with every stroke of my fingers. He writhed, and one of his hands found its way back to my hair. He gripped me tightly, but he held his hips in check, leaving me in control, letting me bring him off as I saw fit. I wanted to grind against the chair, I was so hard.

I had to pull away, my jaw and throat sore, but I kept up the movement of both hands, rubbing his stones and jerking his prick. He was panting, sweating, rosy and disheveled, his eyes absolutely wild. He was on the verge, leaking freely and swelling in my fist. Then I saw his eyelashes flutter and his ribcage rise, and I dove down once more, closing my lips around his prick as he began to spurt. His hips lifted and he pulsed hot and thick against my tongue, filling my mouth with his spending. His moan caught in his throat, escaped, and was caught again, and I gripped him tighter, overwhelmed.

“Ohh,” he sighed, sagging in the chair, and his hand in my hair loosened. “John, you...”

What I was, he didn’t say. I pulled away, swallowed, and wiped my mouth on the back of my hand. I was shaking. My trouser buttons were at risk of popping free of their holes. Holmes lolled, breathing hard, still pink from his shallow navel to his high forehead. His hair was in disarray, falling over his face, and the sleeves of his dressing gown pooled around his elbows on the chair arms, his pale forearms spread wide. His prick lay softening, dusky pink and gleaming, on his belly, his pubic hair damp with my spit and his spunk.

I pushed myself to my feet carefully, half-worried I would reach my climax in my trousers just looking at him. He glanced down. My precarious state made him smile, and I had to catch his hand as he reached for me. Holmes pouted, his plump, red lip stuck out in the mildest, most charming moue of displeasure.

“I’m going to have a bath,” I said, resisting the very strong urge to cup myself and squeeze, or press his palm against my rampant cock, or just free myself and thumb open his mouth. “This heat, you know. You’re welcome to join me if you wish.”

Then, with the strongest force of will I know myself to possess, I let him go, and walked away.

Behind me, Holmes scrambled to do up his drawers and follow.

**Author's Note:**

> in other news, [my gay book comes out today!](http://fullfathomfive.com/writers/elinor-gray/compound-a-felony-a-queer-affair-of-sherlock-holmes/)


End file.
